This is It
by 10step
Summary: Sherlock is coming back home after his fall, but will it be soon enough to save John? Rated M for TW (suicide). Also, lots of angst and sadness


This is it. I'm walking down Baker Street to my home that I haven't seen in years. Three years to be precise. Three years, 56 days, 37 minutes, and 12 seconds. It has been three years since I've seen John Hamish Watson. The same John who has saved my life countless times, in more ways than one. The same John who always wears his horrid but endearing jumpers. The same John with his caring nature that made me _feel_ things. The same John who taught me to be a better person. The same John who would take his life for mine in a heartbeat. The same John that I fell hopelessly in love with.

I toss my empty coffee cup into the nearby trash can and stop once I reach the familiar door. It has 221B in elegant, gold lettering on a dark green, wooden background. I take out my key and unlock it. As I reach for the doorknob, I hesitate, doubts floating around my head. Was Mycroft right? Would John want and accept me back into his life after I hurt him so badly? After I broke his trust? I know I don't deserve him, but I just can't stay away any longer. The thought of never seeing him again is unacceptable, unbearable. Three years of suffering has been long enough. I take a deep breath of cool London air and open the door. In front of me lies an empty staircase. Mrs. Hudson is out shopping now so I don't have to worry about scaring her. As I begin to ascend the steps, I hear a single gunshot.

 _Bang_

Time stops, just for a moment. Then, panicked, I dash up the stairs to find the living room empty. As I turn to go to John's room, I notice that my bedroom door is cracked open, letting a sliver of light through. I sprint there as fast as humanly possible. When I enter, not only does my heart stop, that is when my whole world stops. Lying on my bed is John's lifeless body, blood seeping out of a gunshot wound on his right temple, staining my dark, silk sheets. On the floor lies his gun, dropped and forgotten.

This is it. Today is the day, I'm certain this time. It's been three years since his suicide. _Three years_ since I have seen my consulting detective in his outrageous, over dramatic coat. Ever since his fall, I feel like a piece of my being has been painfully torn away from me, leaving a gaping hole in my chest. I don't think I can deal with it anymore. The only reason I'm still here today is because I had hoped that he would come back, that he wasn't dead. That's what I told myself after the first year he was gone; of course I was too drunk to think straight anyway. I told myself that after the second year he was gone, too. But its been three years now. Its time to stop lying to myself. Now's the time to face the truth; he's never coming back. I was just too stupid to see that. Its funny though, he would have scoffed at me for believing in such a preposterous idea for so long. But now I know, I've learned.

First things first. I visit his grave.

Then I grab my letters that I wrote a week earlier, when I made the fateful decision to end my life. Just three letters. One for Lestrade to thank him for going to the local pub with me every Friday and looking after Sherlock before we met. Also, for being there for me, and to say sorry that he wasn't enough. One for Mrs. Hudson, thanking her for her hospitality and caring for Sherlock, dealing with me after he died, and to say sorry that she wasn't enough either. I'm also leaving my meager possessions to her. The last letter will never be received. It's for Sherlock. I know its pointless, but I couldn't help myself. He's the one I'd want to say the most to. I sign them in my stereotypical, bad doctor scrawl, and place them in envelopes (addressed to each person accordingly).

Now its time. I go upstairs to my room. I haven't been up here in a while. I've taken to sleeping on the couch, on the streets (when I'm drunk), or in his bed. After taking my unused gun from the bedside drawer, I go downstairs to his room and place the letters on his nightstand. I kneel on his bed and put the gun to my right temple. I imagine hearing footsteps on the stairs. My mind must be playing tricks on me again, imagining Sherlock coming home, coming to see me. Don't worry Sherlock, I'll come for you. I love you. I close my eyes and pull the trigger.


End file.
